


Fellow Travelers

by Generex



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Gen, fique them to critique them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 19:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20087419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Generex/pseuds/Generex
Summary: Nothing to see here, just a secret planning meeting of the cabal of banal evil.CW: an ethnic slur, misogynistic decor, open discussion of racist violence, open discussion of political violence. ... The list kind of makes it sound worse than it is maybe?





	Fellow Travelers

[BEGIN READOUT]

FILE: 892039  
INDIVIDUAL: NAME UNKNOWN  
ALIAS: CHALKY  
ROLE: ADVISOR, PROVOCATEUR?, COORDINATOR?  
CATEGORIES: OPPOSITION AGENTS, OPPOSITION ORGANIZATIONS, OTHER AGENTS  
KNOWN AFFILIATES (INDIVIDUAL): MCCONNELL M, LAPIERRE W  
KNOWN AFFILIATES (ORGANIZATIONAL): NRA(2), RNC?  
SOURCES: COMM INTERCEPT  
NOTE01: FIRST KNOWN REFERENCE TO THIS INDIVIDUAL BUT CONTEXT SUGGESTS LONGER ACQUAINTANCE. SEE COMMINT MM2037720.  
NOTE02: CROSS-REFERENCE FINDS MENTION ‘CHALKY’ IN AUDIO SURVEILL WL2889942 JUST PRIOR TO INTERRUPT BY ECM.  
NOTE03: RNC? BECAUSE MENTION OF ‘COMMITTEE’ HOWEVER MEANING UNCLEAR. COULD BE PART OF NRA(2) OR SOME OTHER GROUP.  
ACTION01: QUERY OWN AGENTS  
ACTION02: SUGGEST OPERATION TO IDENTIFY INDIVIDUAL  
ACTION03: CONTINUE COMMINT SURVEILL REPORT SEARCH FOR ADDITIONAL REFERENCES  
ANALYST: MB

[END READOUT]

They called him Chalky because using real names was just asking for the rubes to identify and locate him, and he didn’t want that. Being comfortably undercover was a much better situation than having to deal with the drama of being a known agent. 

Being uncomfortably undercover, like today, sometimes came with that territory. He could cope. Although if they kept him standing on the townhouse doorstep in the rain for much longer, loaded down with parcels of hot food for delivery, he might have to do something to remind them that he was not their servant. 

A young white man finally opened the door, a staffer dressed for work in business casual slacks and dress shirt even though it was a Saturday night. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “Everybody thought someone else was getting it. Can you bring it in here?” 

Chalky carried the parcels inside and put them on a dining table in full view of an uncurtained window. A young white woman, also dressed for work, smiled at him and began opening the packages. As other staffers began coming in to grab food, Chalky and the first staffer removed to the hallway again, where a man in the same nondescript clothes, and of the same general appearance, took his electronic order pad and delivery-service-logo’d hat. While he started slowly toward the front door, Chalky went the basement stairs and down to the rec room. 

It was a far cry from the dank cellars of old: carpeted, paneled, supplied with plush leather-covered furniture and plenty of video and audio technology, a bar, a pool table. A man cave, they called it. There weren’t any women down here except in the framed prints of vintage horror movies and pulp magazine covers. The screensaver on the big screen didn’t count either, Chalky thought after a moment of bemused staring. The standard floating bubbles had been changed into bulbous individual breasts, each with a prominent nipple, jostling randomly across the black background. He’d seen a lot in his time, but knowing that the display was not intended as a symbol of fertility or prosperity made it weirdly disturbing.

The men were all pale, all ready to don suit jackets and play the role of serious politician at any moment. Most of them were currently in shirt sleeves and gathered around the pool table or in chatting groups. 

One of the younger ones (“younger,” in this crowd, meaning under 50) noticed Chalky and frowned. “Hey, who let the dago in?” 

Chalky smiled his thin-lipped smile. “Ah, vintage ethnic slurs,” he said, “to go with the vintage décor. Or is it ‘retro’ now? Very stylish, in either case, I’m sure.” 

Mitch detached himself from a group and approached, smiling and blinking genially. “Don’t mind him, Chalky, he’s still learning the ropes.”

“He should already know not to speak without thinking. Especially among friends.” 

Mitch hesitated, struggling with some part of that statement, then turned a frown on the insulting young man. “He’s right,” he said. “Never speak without thinking. Discipline is our strength.” 

“Yessir,” the man said, and hastily faded back into the nearest group. 

“Now, Chalky, let’s go ahead with our meeting.” The appearance of good cheer restored, Mitch led the way to a smaller, separate, and sound-proofed room.

Here, a half-dozen padded leather executive chairs surrounded a small table. Four white men, who all believed themselves to be among the movers and shaker of Chalky’s stable of agents, were already there. Of course, they didn’t think of themselves as agents, and he had always been careful to foster the idea of an alliance of interests. They variously raised their glasses or nodded as he and McConnell entered and shut the door.

Chalky picked a chair and sat without waiting to be asked. “So,” he said as McConnell settled himself in the last seat. “What’s up?” 

“The thing is,” Ratcliffe said, “we’re wondering what the end game is.” 

“End game,” Chalky repeated. 

“Yeah,” the Texan said, with automatic belligerence. 

McConnell said, “Some of our weaker members are, well, weakening. The mass shootings, the constant rounds of bad press – the fact is, they haven’t got the guts for it. If our victory doesn’t come before they break, it’s going to get a lot harder to hold the line.” 

Chalky couldn’t hide his amusement, though he succeeded in veiling his contempt with it. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you that we’re making history?” 

They looked at him, then at each other, before the least senior of them said, “Yes” as if he suspected a trap in the word. 

“And this somehow gave you the idea that there would be an ‘end game’? By which I suppose you mean an actual end to the game?” 

From their looks, he might as well have been speaking Greek. Except for the Reverend, who was leaning back in his chair but seemed to have come alert. Chalky waited them out; finally it was Jared, again, who said, “That’s what ‘end game’ means.” 

“But history doesn’t end, gentlemen,” Chalky said. “Making history is always a present-tense kind of thing.” 

“Until the End Times,” the Reverend said, with more than a touch of his pulpit voice. “History ends then.”

“And they will come when they come,” Chalky replied. “It is not given to me to know when that will be. My point is,” he told the rest, “until then, if you expect the Opposition to just give up at some point, you are very mistaken.”

McConnell frowned. “You don’t know the pressure I’m under,” he said. 

“We have the Angel of Death on our side,” the Reverend said. The others glanced at him and away; Jared looked particularly uncomfortable. “Unfortunately,” the Reverend conceded, “it is clear that the harvest is not yet sufficient for the purpose.” 

Ratcliffe apparently decided that he hadn’t put his oar in for too long. “So that’s it? We just keep hoping to stay on top?” 

“But we’re not on top,” Jared said. “Only two-thirds on top, or something.” Ratcliffe scowled at this reminder that the House was in the Opposition’s hands. 

“Half and counting,” said the previously-silent fifth agent. “We’re closer to owning the judiciary than we’ve been in a century.” And he ought to know, being a federal judge himself. 

“That’s still a long-term plan,” McConnell said. “In the short term – a lot of our members think in the short term. We lost some good people in the mid-terms. What if we lose more? We’ve already got more open seats than I like.” 

Chalky sighed theatrically. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you’re thinking strategically. And I admire and value that, I really do. It’s important. But the big picture, and I’m not sure how you keep forgetting this when I know we’ve talked about it, the big picture isn’t so strategic. It’s emotional. It’s, honestly, a little chaotic. On the down side, that makes it hard to predict, but on the up side it makes it hard for the Opposition to defend against.” 

McConnell stirred and adjusted his glasses and then spoke. “It’s taking too long.” 

“Damn straight it is,” Ratcliffe said.

“It’s coming closer every day,” Chalky insisted, as he had to. “Our people are feeling the urgency of this moment more and more. Many of them are truly beginning to grasp that the time for careful, reasonable action is past, or nearly so. Storms often begin with a few drops before they become a deluge.” 

Jared looked anxious, which Chalky attributed to some surviving iota of common sense. 

“Mitch,” Chalky said, addressing the imagined leader of the group. “You know things don’t have to be the way they are now. You’re old enough to remember when you always – always – got the respect due to you as a white man and a Christian. When everyone knew what happened to the fools who objected.” He warmed to his subject, pitching his voice like one of the Reverend’s sermons. “We’re aimed, straight and true, at getting back that respect. That power. That ability to protect ourselves and our families, our faith and our communities. We will have it all back. All of it.”

McConnell licked his lips and nodded. Ratcliffe snorted. “Antifa might have a thing or two to say about that.” But he looked eager for those objections, as he would. 

“Of course,” Chalky said in a scoffing tone. “And the mainstream part of the Opposition will disavow them and plead for reason and restraint and before they know it, our people will have picked off their leaders and restored them to their proper place: cringing in fear at our feet. The Clintons, Pelosi, the lot of them.” 

Four of his agents savored that image. Jared, still anxious, put forth an objection of his own. “But the police keep arresting and shooting the people you say are part of this process. How’s that helping the cause?” 

“It’s strategic,” Chalky answered. “It lets us convince the Opposition that it’s just a bunch of random angry men. And to a certain extent they are! But people are getting used to the violence. Inured. If we’re patient, if we wait for the process to unfold, the fear will creep into their hearts and do half of our work for us. And remember, all of you, fear is what they must feel. Fear will keep them in line; their fear cripples them and gives us power. And never forget: the violence that will come is necessary, as necessary as everything else we’re doing. It’s the way to get in power and stay there, the only sure way.”

“We’ll be ready,” the judge said. “The groundwork is already laid.” 

“It is God’s vengeance for their desertion of Him,” the Reverend said.

“All right,” McConnell said. “I have faith; I’ll hold the line for as long as it takes.” 

Neither Ratcliffe nor Jared were eloquent enough to add anything but nods. 

“Excellent,” Chalky said, and stood. “If that’s everything? Thank you, gentlemen.”

He wouldn’t really be able to sigh and shake his head until he got through the back door. Mentally, though, as he found a path through the milling crowd of adjacent-to-power brokers in the outer room, he already was. Jared would crumble when the mobs started roving the streets, he was sure. He’d been brought up on stories of murdered kin, not stories of righteous lynchings. The others … they would ride the tiger. They believed.

The fools.

Chalky found the door and let himself smile. It was funny, really, how the Opposition could be so useless and yet so perceptive. It was always so very, very obvious: the cruelty was the point.


End file.
